Sound and Silence
by asteristar
Summary: I always knew this would happen. She walked in my door and I started preparing my goodbye. MSR, kind of AU, Rating for Language
1. Chapter 1

Sound and Silence  
A/N: This was hanging around in my head for a little while, and I decided to get it down on paper – or, at least, cyber paper. It's not much, but it's a scenario I've never dealt with before. It takes place about 2/3 into the fifth season. Just after "Chinga" and "Kill Switch".  
Spoilers: Emily, Memento Memori, Max, Post-Modern Prometheus

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

I always knew this would happen.

She walked in my door and I started preparing my goodbye.

I had originally planned to scare her away, but when I got to know her better, when I saw her dedication to the cases, and when she looked at me with those crystalline eyes, I knew that I would do anything I could to keep her from leaving. I forgot my goodbye and began to write a new speech – the one confessing my love for her.

Turns out, I never got to tell her. And I guess I shouldn't have forgotten my goodbye. Because I had to say it today, and it was nothing that I wanted it to be. It was stiff. Formal. Brief. Impersonal.

She was standing there, eyes unnaturally bright with tears, about to go through security and leave me forever, and I froze.

"Good luck in San Francisco. Bye." That was all I said.

Then I left. I just turned around and left. I didn't give her a hug. I didn't tell her I would miss her. I just walked away.

I am such a fucking idiot.

And now she's gone. She's three thousand miles away. And I will never see her again.

It feels like a betrayal. It feels like she's broken my heart. And not because she asked for the transfer.

Because she didn't fight it. She didn't try to stay.

That's what kills me. I was ready. I was ready to tell her, to tell her all that she means to me, and then she just up and left.

So I'm sitting here in the dark of my apartment, staring unseeingly at the blank screen of the television, missing my partner with every particle of my being. And I'm seriously contemplating putting my loaded gun to my head and pulling the trigger.

* * *

That son of a bitch. That fucking son of a bitch. How dare he! After everything we've been through, all he can do is wish me good luck? He said six words to me. Six fucking words.

God, I hate the man.

And I miss him already.

That's why I took the offer. To get away from my dependence on him. To find myself again. That sounds so cliché, I know, but it's true. I don't know who I am without him.

There's also the fact that I love him. That our relationship was becoming so stagnant that I couldn't take it anymore. Those kind of factored into my leaving, too.

This is for the best. This was the right thing to do.

So I'm sitting here in the airplane as we fly somewhere over Nebraska, clutching the armrests of my seat desperately, trying not to hyperventilate, missing Mulder with an aching heart, knowing that my ache will not ease.

* * *

It's been two years. Two endless, torturous years. People walk on eggshells around me. They say little, and what they do say is carefully worded. I do very little fieldwork, and whatever cases I take are almost always local. I haven't traveled past West Virginia, and any mention of a case on the West Coast sends me running for the hills.

I have erased all trace of her from my life. There are no pictures of her anywhere – not in the office, and not in my apartment.

Outwardly, she is completely gone. Inwardly is a different story.

I know it has been exactly 742 days and 28 minutes since I last heard her voice, and only about a minute less since I last saw her face.

I have a sort of running bet with myself, to see how much longer I can go without her. I don't think I'll last much longer. Sooner or later, a chance will come to go to San Francisco, and I will be unable to resist.

A knock on the door of the office startles me out of my thoughts.

"Come in!" I call, and the door opens, revealing Skinner standing there with a disapproving look on his face.

"Agent Mulder," he begins, stepping fully into the office and closing the door behind him. "I just finished reading your report."

Oh, crap.

"Not my best, huh, sir?"

His frown deepens, and I brace myself.

"Agent Mulder, this report was barely coherent. Half of it was your musings on Freud."

Oh. I left that in? I could have sworn I deleted it.

"But the other half was okay, right, sir?"

He looks at me, smiling sadly. I can see pity in his eyes.

"Not even close, Mulder. I expect a rewrite on my desk in the morning."

I nod, leaning back in my chair and turning on the computer. He moves towards the door, but pauses, his hand on the doorknob. He looks back at me, at my defeated posture, at the lines on my face and the circles under my eyes.

"You really are lost without her, aren't you?" he asks softly, and while I would normally have been angry at the mention of her, somehow I can't muster the energy.

"You have no idea, sir," I reply, not looking up from the desk. I hope desperately that he won't say anything more, and my wish is granted. I hear the door open, Skinner's footsteps as he leaves, and the soft click as the door shuts.

I don't usually allow myself to think of her. If I do, it is merely in passing, a reference to a past case or something. But there are days when the world seems especially dark, and on those days, I immerse myself in memories of her, in memories of her face and voice and form. And on those days, it is all I can do to keep from buying a plane ticket to California and going to find her.

But, like I said, I don't think I'll last much longer.

* * *

I must admit, I'm surprised that he lasted this long.

It's been two whole years, and it's as if we were never partners. Nobody in the San Francisco office has mentioned his name, has mentioned the X-Files at all. Nobody has called me Mrs. Spooky, or made alien jokes that I've heard thousands of times. People treat me based on my skills and my reputation. It's nice, but it does nothing to ease the hollowness I feel.

I haven't cut him completely out of my life. I tried, but it was too hard. I keep tabs on him, calling Skinner regularly to make sure he hasn't done anything stupid. I know how Mulder reacted when I was taken, and I don't want anything like that to happen ever again.

The case I'm working on is particularly difficult. It's one with children. Little girls, in fact. And it's tearing me apart, because all I see when I look at their faces is the face of my lost daughter. Emily's face.

It was one of the last cases Mulder and I worked on together. And while I may not have openly leaned on him for comfort, it was enough to know that he was there. I don't have that luxury now.

I stare at the autopsy photographs scattered across my desk. Three children in total. Three autopsies. Three times seeing Emily lying on the cold, metal table. Three times I almost called Mulder. Three times I didn't.

"Dr. Scully?"

I look up to see the other agent on the case, a young man only a few years out of Quantico, standing in my doorway. It's Friday, and he's probably on his way home to his girlfriend.

"Yes, Agent Dryden?"

"I was just wondering if you'd finished the autopsy report."

I nod, sitting up straighter and collecting the photos together. "Of course." I slip them into the folder, along with my printed report. "Here you go. The findings are on the front page."

"Thank you," he responds, taking the file from me and flipping through it. "Are you okay? It had to be hard, doing the autopsies and everything."

"This is not my first child autopsy," I reply sharply, my temper stretched thin already. I sigh, leaning back in my chair. "I'm sorry, Agent Dryden. Cases like this are never easy."

He nods, and backs out of my office, the look on his face a mix of pity and awe. "Bye, Dr. Scully."

"Bye," I reply absently. Once again, I am alone.

As always.


	2. Chapter 2

Sound and Silence  
A/N: Here it is, chapter two. We'll see how this one turns out.

**CHAPTER TWO**

I unlock the door to my apartment and step inside, tossing the keys onto the table in the front hall. As the door clicks shut behind me, I take in the furnishings of the apartment, still so unfamiliar to me even after two years.

It doesn't feel like home. There are no memories here. Plus, there is the fact that I barely spend time here.

The truth is, when I'm not at work, I have too much time to think. When I think, I think about Mulder. And that is precisely what I came here to avoid.

Jerking myself out of my thoughts, I look around, feeling slightly uneasy. It is then that I notice the phone, which has been disconnected. Somebody is here with me. Somebody I don't know.

I smell the chloroform before the rag doused with it covers my mouth, and I recognize the inevitability of fighting. I feel my gun drop from my limp hand, and as the world starts to go black, I collapse to the floor.

Oh, crap. Not again.

* * *

The call comes early in the morning. When I answer it, I am so groggy that my voice sounds slightly drunk, all slurred and raspy. 

"Yeah?"

"Agent Mulder? Is that you?"

Why is Skinner calling me so early? I sit up straight in bed and clear my throat a couple times.

"Yeah. I was just sleeping, that's all."

"Well, I want you down at Dulles in two hours. There's a flight leaving for San Francisco at 7:45, and you and I both have seats on it."

San Francisco? Shit. No, no, no. This can't be happening. She's in San Francisco. And she doesn't want to see me. That's been made perfectly clear.

"Um, sir? Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

"I'd rather wait until we're face to face, Agent Mulder."

Something's up. Something's really wrong.

"I'll be there," I say, and hang up. I sit there, bolt upright in bed, clutching the phone tightly.

It's Scully. I know it is. She's in trouble. And even though I'm a little worried about what will happen if I see her again, I know that I'm powerless to refuse. If she's in trouble, it is my instinct to protect. And I can't protect her if I'm all the way across the country.

I get my bags together in record time, throwing things into my suitcase without folding them, not caring if they'll be wrinkled. I know Skinner said two hours, but I need a little time to go to the Gunmen first, and find out what Scully's been up to in the last two years.

* * *

I wake up slowly, my eyelids feeling leaden. My mouth feels as if it were stuffed with cotton. I feel somewhat less than alert. 

I am lying on a cold floor. Cement, it feels like. I am not restrained, but as I take in my surroundings, I realize that it hardly matters. The room is totally dark, save for one slit of light coming from one wall of the room. As my eyes adjust to the blackness, I can see that the light is creeping in from under the door.

Other than the door, the room is made entirely of cement. The walls must be at least two feet thick. I hear something humming, and after a few moments of searching, realize that it is the air vent, high up in the corner of the room.

I sit up and crawl over to the door. Carefully, I feel along the edge until I reach the doorknob. Or, until I reach where the doorknob should be. The door is one smooth surface. I can't tell what it's made of. Not wood. Something sturdier. Harder to break down. I lean all my weight against it, hoping desperately to feel it give, but nothing happens.

I feel tears well up inside me. I don't know what time it is. I don't know if it's still Friday. I know I'm starting to panic, but I can't help it. I've been kidnapped before. I've dealt with this before.

But Mulder was looking for me then. And he isn't now. Nobody is. I crawl carefully into the corner and huddle there, struggling to hold back my tears.

What the hell. Nobody can see me. Might as well let it go.

Here comes the flood.

* * *

I reach Gunmen's in record time. They are surprised to see me – I haven't visited them much since Scully left – but they let me in happily. They might be expecting a social call, but that's not what I'm here for. 

"I want Scully's file," I demand as soon as I step inside the apartment.

"It's about time," says Frohike, looking smug. "Pay up, Langley." Grudgingly, Langley hands pulls a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his pants pocket and hands it over to Frohike, who puts it in his own pocket and pats it lovingly.

Byers is over at one of the many computers, typing away rapidly. He waves me over, and I can see that he's found Scully's file.

"Come here, Mulder. We've had this ready since she left, just in case you ever decided to check up on her."

I step in front of the computer, and am struck by the picture of her that heads her file. It is the first time I've seen her face in two years. It hasn't changed. She is as beautiful as I remember her, her eyes the same blue, her hair the same fire. I fall in love with her all over again.

I scroll down through her file, noting with an odd sort of satisfaction that she hasn't been assigned another partner. I continue, reading the list of accolades she has received since leaving. And I feel pride swell in me, seeing all that she's done. But there is something here, a recently added case file. There is a link. I click on it, and am not nearly prepared for what I see.

Children. Little girls. Three autopsies, all performed by her. God, what this must have done to her.

I close the file and stare blankly at the screen, processing everything. Scully has done well without me. She has become the brilliant, respected agent that I always knew she could be.

But that doesn't mean she doesn't miss me. I cling to that hope with all that I have.

Please, let her have missed me.

I look up at the Gunmen to find them watching me with sympathy in their eyes.

"Thanks, guys," I tell them, and they nod.

"Go find her, Mulder," Byers says.

"Take care of her," Langley adds.

"Bring her back," Frohike advises, and I smile grimly, my face determined. I'll try. She won't want to come, but I'll try.

I leave the Gunmen's apartment with a new sense of purpose, and drive to the airport. When I reach the gate, Skinner is waiting, and his face is tenser than it usually is. Which is saying something.

"Agent Mulder. Glad you made it."

"Sir, what's going on?" No sense in beating about the bush.

Skinner takes a deep breath, and if I didn't know better, I'd think he was nervous.

"Look, Mulder, something's happened," Skinner starts, and I know the end of his sentence before he says it.

To Scully. Something's happened to Scully. And I wasn't there.

"Mulder, when Scully left, she was worried that you'd react, uh, negatively."

My insides twist into a knot. Memories of the time during her abduction rise like bile in my throat and I choke them down, feeling the burn behind my eyes.

"I wonder what made her think that," I respond wryly, bitterness laced through my voice.

"She calls every other week to check in," Skinner continued, matter-of-factly. "Every other Friday, 8:30 sharp, always on my private line."

This news baffles me. She calls Skinner to check on me? But she left. Somehow, those two pieces of information don't fit together in my mind.

"Regularly?" I ask, and Skinner nods.

"She hasn't missed a call once in the two years since she left."

Well, that's my Scully. Consistent, if nothing else. But Skinner wouldn't have brought this up if it wasn't relevant.

And then it hits me.

"She missed one yesterday, didn't she?" I ask, knowing the answer, and my words come out as a whisper.

Our flight is boarding, and dimly I register the tinny loudspeaker's call for us to board, but all I can hear is Skinner's voice, confirming my fear.

"Yes," he says, and the word resonates in my chest, echoing in the empty spaces that riddle my broken heart.

* * *

I'm falling downwards into a white nothing. I can see nothing above me, nothing around me, and certainly nothing below me. I'm flailing desperately, trying to stop the fall, and my surroundings become darker. 

Soon, I'm hurtling through black depths, and I'm screaming as loud as I can. But there is no sound. There is no light. I am trapped in oblivion. I am sobbing, clawing at the air, screaming frantically, my voice raw with fear.

And suddenly, a hand is grasping my outstretched one, pulling me up out of the darkness.

I'm standing on the top of a hill. It is covered in deep green grass, and the sky is the kind of blue that can only ever be seen in dreams. A man is standing behind me, arms wrapped around me waist, holding me securely. I slowly relax.

And I hear a familiar voice, sounding in my head.

_I'm coming. Hold on. I'm coming._

I'll try, I promise silently. I'll try.


	3. Chapter 3

Sound and Silence  
A/N: I tried to inject a little humor into this one, but I'm not sure if it fits. Hm. We'll see...

**CHAPTER THREE**

Flying with Skinner is nothing like flying with Scully.

Skinner does not clutch the armrests. Skinner does not bring a bag of sunflower seeds for me, because he knows I will forget. And Skinner certainly does not fall asleep with his head on my shoulder.

Thank God.

What he does do is sit there with such a solemn look on his face that he scares away the flight attendant. I mean, I get that the situation is serious. I get that better than anybody. But we're sitting on a plane. There's nothing we can do to help her. Not yet, anyway.

Skinner keeps glancing at me worriedly, and I think that my lack of panic is concerning him. My face looks expressionless. To an outsider, I look totally calm.

The thing is, Skinner hasn't yet learned to recognize my panic face. Which I am wearing big time.

If Scully could see me now, she would be pulling out her gun and looking for Cigarette-Smoking man. That is how panicked I look right now.

"Sir?" I ask quietly, and he looks away quickly, trying to pretend like he wasn't just staring at me.

"Yes, Agent Mulder?"

"Do I have something on my face?"

"What?"

Skinner clearly has no appreciation for my sense of humor.

"It's just that you've been staring at me for the past little while."

"I guess I'm just wondering how you can be so calm, Agent Mulder."

I fight the urge to laugh. Calm? God, I'm anything but. Scully's in danger.

"Sir, you obviously don't understand. This face," I say, gesturing to my expressionless visage, "is what Scully used to call my Panic Face."

Skinner looks thoughtful. "You know, Mulder, suddenly a lot of things make more sense than they used to. Meetings, budget review, all that stuff."

I chuckle. "Budget review especially."

Skinner returns my laugh, and settles back into his seat. "Well, understanding that you're wearing your Panic Face, I see fit to assure you that Scully will be fine."

I frown, looking down at my hands, folded in my lap. "You don't know that, sir."

"But I do, Agent Mulder. Scully has gone missing before. And you've always found her."

"I was her partner then."

"And you're not now?" I give him a look, and he just shrugs. "I mean, I know that technically, you're no longer partners, but since when have you bothered with technicalities?"

Okay, so, he has a point. In these past two years, I have never once considered Scully to be anything less than my partner – my partner in work, in love, in life. The real question is whether Scully feels the same way.

And I need to find her for that question to be answered.

* * *

I jerk awake with a gasp, my eyes flying open. And I immediately wonder if I really woke up. The world is too dark for me to be awake. 

The black is suffocating. My throat is dry and sandpapery. My stomach feels like it is curling in on itself, and if I could see anything, it would be spinning in front of me.

I crawl over to the door, running my hands over the impossibly smooth surface. I try to stand, but I am so dizzy that my heels seem five stories high, and I collapse against the door, my legs twisted under me at an awkward angle.

The cement floor is cool against my cheek. My skin ignites in a feverish burn. I know well that I am deep in the throes of dehydration. I drag myself closer to the door, my mouth pressed to the gap where the light shines through.

"Mulder," I rasp, getting it out only once before my voice gives out.

I remember my dream, and I'm falling so fast into oblivion that I can't figure out how it happened. But there is no hand to pull me back.

He is not here.

He will not be here.

He is three fucking thousand miles away.

I'm crying silently, and the tears are a salty benediction on my tongue, giving me the strength that I need to yell his name at the top of my lungs.

But the sound only echoes back in on me, pushing at my skin and forcing me to haul myself into the corner and cower there, sobs wracking my body as I accept my fate.

I accept the end.

* * *

I am standing in the doorway of Scully's San Francisco apartment. 

It doesn't look hers. It doesn't looked lived in. No, right now it just looks like a reflection of my terror.

The phone is disconnected. A chloroform-soaked rag lies carelessly on the floor. Her keys sit on the tabletop, as if tossed there on her way in. Her gun is on the floor in the middle of the front hall, and I can see in my mind as it falls from her limp hand.

I walk further into the apartment, and find myself opening the door to her bedroom, the one place I never went when she was still back home.

The bed hasn't been slept in. The room doesn't look like its been entered by anyone but me in the past couple days. That's not like Scully.

I open the doors to her closet, and am comforted by the sight of so many familiar clothes. There's the black suit she used to wear to big meetings. Shit. There's the one she was wearing when I learned she had cancer. Not a ton of happy memories associated with that one.

I reach out, fingering the navy skirt suit that I see on the far right. I remember that one. I remember that one very well.

That's the thing she was wearing the last time I saw her.

I jerk my hand back as if burned.

"Mulder?" Skinner calls from the other room, and I turn, ready to leave.

"Yes, sir?"

"We lifted some prints off the phone. We're running them through the database right now. We should have some leads soon."

I nod, not trusting my voice at the moment.

Skinner steps closer to me, examining my face, and I know he can see the depth of my worry there. Scully is everything to me – distance has not changed that. Nothing ever will.

"Mulder, you need to get some rest. Go back to the hotel. I will call you as soon as I know anything."

I am hesitant, but Skinner is my boss, after all, and I sigh, leaving the room and walking out of the apartment quickly.

I hail a taxi and give the driver the address of the motel. I lean back in the seat, closing my eyes and letting somebody else do the work for a few minutes. When we arrive at the motel, I toss the driver money through the window and head for my room.

Having entered and kicked off my shoes, I fall face down onto the bed and lie there spread-eagled. For a few moments, I do not move, but breathing starts to become a problem, and I roll over onto my back.

The ceiling is perhaps the ugliest fucking ceiling I have ever seen.

That is the only thought running through my head right now. Sure, there are plenty of others vying for attention, but thinking about the color of the ceiling is all I'm willing to do right now.

The cracks trace the pattern of my life. Twists. Turns. Broken lines that never connect to anything ever again. And one large, dark crack in the ceiling that is continuous, curving, twisting, but never broken.

My love for Scully. And, hopefully, hers for me.

* * *

I am slowly going insane. 

I am curled up in the corner. My arms, wrapped tightly around myself, are cramping and I know that I could not move them if I tried.

My hair, now ending just below my shoulders, hangs in a curtain around my face and as I breathe in with difficulty, I recognize the stuffiness of the air, and I try not to breathe as deeply.

Shallow breaths. Take shallow breaths. Buy yourself time.

I close my eyes and slide down into a lying position. It is cooler on the floor, and I feel as if I am burning up on the inside. I turn my face towards the wall and bite back a sob.

Have faith. Buy time. Shallow breaths. Faith. Shallow breaths. Buy time. Shallow breaths.

The litany repeats over and over in my brain, and I can feel my mouth moving, silently speaking the words I hear in my head. And I concentrate so hard on repeating it that for a moment I forget to breathe.

And then I remember, and I gasp in air, and I know that I have to keep going.

I will not die.

Not here. Not here in this hollowed-out cement cube.

I. Will. Not. Die.

There's only one problem.

I. Cannot. Move.

* * *

Skinner calls me about an hour later with a name. The Gunmen have the name two minutes later, and about five minutes after that, I'm calling Skinner back with the information I've received. 

The guy's name is Norman Balwer. He has a record, but it consists of a small burglary about ten years ago, and a few unpaid parking tickets. Nothing to suggest kidnapping.

But he's taken Scully. I'm sure of that.

Skinner and I are taking a team over to his apartment. We'll see how that turns out.

I sit in the passenger seat next to Skinner, fidgeting, and he shoots me a look that quite clearly tells me to sit still. I turn to look out the window, trying to keep my leg from bouncing up and down, a nervous tic of mine.

We have finally arrived, and I burst out of the car, barely waiting for Skinner and the team. I am first to reach Balwer's door, and with Skinner's consent, I kick it down. What I see is not what I expected.

Norman Balwer sits in his living room, watching TV and eating a slice of pizza. He looks totally innocent. Except that I see Scully's cross sitting on the table next to him.

I am standing over him in an instant, my hand latching around his neck and lifting him to his feet. Soon I have my gun pressed against his forehead, and he is staring up at me in fear.

"Where is she?" I growl, and he looks perplexed.

"I'm sorry?"

"Where the hell is she? What the fuck have you done with her?"

"I don't know who you're talking about," he replies smugly, and my hand tightens around his neck.

"Dana Scully. Dana Katherine Scully. You took her. Where is she?"

"Oh, the redhead?" he says, and I try not to strangle him. I still need him to tell me where she is. Then, I can strangle him.

"Yes, the redhead," I grate, and he smirks.

"She's in a cell. You'll never find her."

"I'll find her. Because you're going to tell me where she is."

He doesn't want to cooperate, but as I cock my gun and he hears the bullet click into place, his resolve weakens.

"Kerr Construction," he gasps out, and I let go of his throat, turning away from him. I don't care as he falls to the floor. I don't hear Skinner asking me the questions I know that he is, and I don't hear the team bursting into the apartment.

I hear Norman Balwer telling me that Scully is in a cell. And I move towards the door with an alacrity I didn't know I possessed.

I call Information while I'm getting in the car, and I have the address for Kerr Construction in a few moments. I break about fifty speeding laws getting there, and when I arrive, I find myself standing in front of an abandoned factory.

I guess Kerr Construction hasn't been in business for a while, now.

I'm a little nervous about going in there by myself. But Skinner knows where I am. And Scully's in there somewhere. So I push open the door to the factory, and proceed forward, calling out Scully's name.

Damn, I wish I had a flashlight.

* * *

Shallow breaths. Buy time. Faith. 

Mulder. You said you were coming. I'm holding on, Mulder, but where are you? Where are you?

Shallow breaths. Faith. Buy time. Where are you? Can't move.

Shallow breaths.

* * *

I hear Skinner and the team pull up outside the factory with a screech. They catch up with me quickly, and Skinner hands me a flashlight. I nod my thanks, and continue my search. 

She's not up here. Balwer said she was in a cell. This is all factory stuff. Machines and all that. Cell. What does that mean? Cell.

Basement.

I'm running, looking for stairs, an elevator, a hole in the floor. Anything.

Finally, stairs. Running down them, noise bouncing off the walls, my breathing heavy as I push open a door and find myself in a long, dark corridor.

One bare light bulb lights the whole hallway. Silence so thick it strangles. My heart so loud it shatters.

Three doors.

The middle one. It's always the middle one.

I kick it, hard. Doesn't open. Skinner's coming down the stairs. I hear everything from far away.

I throw myself against the door, and it gives, crashing down. Light floods.

And she is there.

* * *

Sound. People. A crash on the door. 

I try to hide, try to pull myself into the corner.

Shallow breaths. Buy time.

Stay alive.

The door is gone. Light floods.

And he is there.


	4. Chapter 4

Sound and Silence  
A/N: Final chapter. Somewhat shorter, than the rest... okay, a lot shorter. I'm not sure if I'm happy with it. I might add more later. But for now, this is the end.**  
**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

I rush to her, dropping my gun and flashlight somewhere near the door. Carefully, I cradle her in my arms. Her skin burns, and her face is so pale.

But she breathes.

I hold her to my chest, stroking her hair gently as I tell Skinner I need water, quickly.

Her eyes flutter open, and I smile down at her, trying not to look too worried.

"Hey," I say, and her lips curl upwards in a tiny smile. "I'm here. You'll be okay, Scully. I've got you."

She closes her eyes and slowly turns her face towards me. I hold her closer, and try not to cry.

* * *

I wake, not to blackness, but to the white styrofoam tile of a hospital ceiling.

Mulder sleeps, slumped in a chair by my bedside. He holds one of my hands in both of his, and as I squeeze his fingers gently, he stirs, waking slowly.

"You're awake," he says, leaning forward. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," I reply. "A little tired, but I'm fine."

He smiles wryly, and I look down.

"Look, Scully, I know that this is a little sudden, this being the first time I've spoken to you in two years, but I want you to consider coming back to Washington."

I cannot hide my surprise. But then, this is Mulder, and he if there's something he wants, he goes for it.

"Mulder, I don't think so. I can't go back to the way things were."

He nods, and his gaze is completely sincere. "Neither can I, Scully."

Well. I'll admit I didn't really expect that.

* * *

She looks stunned. I guess the professing-my-feelings thing is new. I should try it out more often.

"Look, we don't have to talk about this now," I assure her. "I just wanted you to know." She smiles at me, and I smile back sadly. "I missed you, Scully. And if you don't come back to Washington, I may have to move out here."

She laughs. God, I missed that.

"I don't think you'd like California, Mulder. Too much sun for you. And besides, you need your bench at the Jefferson Memorial."

"Our bench," I correct her, and her smile widens.

"I'll think about it," she tells me, but I know she's coming back. I grin at her idiotically, and her eyes are lit with a strange glow that I've never seen before.

And then I remember her birthday three years ago and her laugh as I gave her the key chain. I remember the smile she wore when we danced at that Cher concert. I remember everything Scully.

"I've got to go – Skinner wants my report on this whole thing – but I'll come back later, okay?"

She nods, and I lean forward, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

"Okay," she replies.

I am a few feet away from the door when I stop, pulling something from my pocket.

"By the way, I found this. I thought you might want it back." I go back to stand next to her bed, and hand her the cross.

"Wow," she murmurs to herself. "Serious deja vu." I chuckle.

She takes the necklace from me, and the look she gives me is so pure, so her, that I can't help but grin.

"Thank you, Mulder. Really. For everything."

I shrug, and wave it off. "We're partners, Scully. This is what I'm supposed to do."

I leave out the part where I tell her I love her. I leave out the part where I tell her how much I missed her. I leave out the part where I tell her how scared I was.

But I think she hears me anyway.

**_El fin_**


End file.
